Weyland The Smith
Weyland, the smith, a name whispered with awe and fear. He wasn't just skilled; he was touched. His creations breathed magic. But his story isn't one of gentle craft; it's a tale stained with blood and fueled by a burning, all-consuming vengeance.
It begins with swan-maidens, ethereal beauties who briefly shared Weyland's life. He loved one, a bond forged in moonlight. But their time together was fleeting. They vanished, leaving Weyland shattered.
He sought solace in his forge, a lonely place where the clang of hammer against anvil echoed his despair. His skill became legendary, attracting the attention of a king – a king rotten with greed.
This king, a viper in human form, lured Weyland with honeyed words, only to imprison him in a sunless, isolated cage. There, he forced Weyland to create wonders, demanding magic while denying freedom. Years Weyland toiled, his heart a festering wound.
But Weyland’s magic wasn't confined to metal; it was in his blood. He feigned submission, hiding his rage. He crafted jewels for the king, each piece a masterpiece, but also a poisoned dart aimed at the king's heart. He even fashioned a brooch from the king's own teeth – a grotesque trophy of the vengeance to come.
Then came the king's daughter, beautiful, famed across the land. She came to Weyland's prison seeking a repair for her ring—a ring Weyland recognized instantly: his wife's, stolen by the king. He saw his chance.
He took the ring, smiled sweetly, and then, in an act of brutal, calculated revenge, he raped the princess.
With his vengeance complete, Weyland turned his thoughts to escape. He gathered every scrap of metal, every cog, chain, leftover gemstone, splinter of ivory, and forged wings to fit his back. As the king’s men stormed his cell, Weyland launched himself into the sky, escaping his sunless cage.
Weyland went on to make many more things, and he had many more adventures. Many more tales are lost, but one thing we can be sure of: nobody ever fucked with Weyland the Smith again.